406

ing compelled, even occasionally, to make our magazine a vehicle of horrors; but it becomes a part of our duty to hand down to posterity accounts, however brief, of certain events which must ever excite astonishment and indignation. We allude to several atrocious murders which have been committed within the short space of a month in different parts of the country, two of which have disgraced our metropolis, and which, in point of malignity and cruelty, can scarcely be paralleled. One, which is the universal subject of conversation, was committed on the evening of the 16th, by a wretch named Dean, on the body of a female infant, four years and a half old, the daughter of two decent persons named Albert, residing near the Elephant and Castle. The murderer (an engraver out of employ, and who had been a soldier) was intimate with the family. He took the child out, on the evening in question, on pretence of buying it some apples, and in a passage close by the residence of its parents, nearly severed its head from its body with his pocket knife. He had al

ways shewn a remarkable fondness for the

child. The demoniac, in a day or two after wards, surrendered himself, and made a voluntary confession that he had committed the crime through love! A public-house-keeper's daughter, near Aldgate, having rejected his addresses, he determined to murder her, that his own life might be forfeited; but on reflection, he said he preferred killing the child, because it had less sins to answer for! The other case was that of a Chelsea pensioner, a German, 40 years of age, who delibeerately stabbed his wife because he suspected her of incontinence. A third case of horror may be added to make up the climax. The body of a soldier's wife has just been found in a well at a public-house at Brompton, where it had lain a mouth, since a part of the regiment was quartered there; it was discovered by the corrupt state of the water, which was constantly used. The husband (an Irishman) gave out that his wife had eloped with another man: he has since deserted.

A New Literary Journal, to be entitled the Edinburgh Monthly Review is about to appear. The first number will be published on the 1st of January, 1819, and to be regularly continued.

TYPHUS FEVER.

Dr. J. C. Smith obtained £5,000 from Parliament, for the following recipe R. 6 dr. powdered nitre, 6 dr. of oil of vitriol, mix them in a tea cup by adding to the nitre one drachm of the oil at a time. The cup to be placed during the preparation on a hot hearth or plate of heated iron, and the mixture stirred with a tobacco pipe. The cup to be placed in different parts of the sick-room.

INFALLIBLE CURE FOR THE GOUT. part

Apply a leek-poultice to the

affected.

CURE FOR THE JAUNDICE.

[VOL. 4.

A very worthy clergyman, affectionately attached to his family, was asked by a friend, if his daughter, who was known to be near her confinement, was yet put to bed? Yes,' replied the Doctor, I thank you, she is.' "And what is the result?"Sir, (returned the cheerful Divine) she Why, my dear has had her labour for her pains!"

A boy at school was accused by another, of having secreted or stolen his penknife, and could not persuade him to the contrary. The loser at length determined that the supposed thief should buy him a new one, and told him so; to which the other unthinkingly replied, "Yes, but not till I'm Lord Mayor of London !" Though the

boy had then no connexion whatever with the Metropolis, he is now become one of its Aldermen, and more than a year will probably not elapse before he is seated in the Mayoral chair. The person, the accuser, is still living, and has signified his intention of claim ing the fulfilment of the promise.*

other

VOL. 4.]

407

From La Belle Assemblee, December, 1818.

THE DEAD SOLDIER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF LAVATER.

E sleeps! The hour of mortal pain

HE warrior pride alike are past,

His blood is mingling with the rain,

His cheeks are withering in the blast. This morn there was a bright hue there, The flash of courage stern and high; The steel has drained its current clear,

The storm has bleached its gallant dye. This morn these icy bands were warm,

That lid, half shewing the glazed ball, Was life--Thou chill and clay-faced form, Is this the one we lov'd ?---This all? Woman, away, and weep no more,

Can the dead give you love for love--Can the grave hear? His course was o'er, The spirit wing'd its way above. Wilt thou for dust and ashes weep? Away; thy husband lies not here. Look to yon Heaven! If love is deep On earth---'tis tenfold deeper there.

From the European Magazine, Oct. 1818.
THE ARCTIC MOON.

[By the Author of Legends of Lampidosa, &c.]

WHEN Briorn* sat on the land of ice,

Where the cloudy Storm-God hovers, Ere the four stars looked from northern skies, Or the sons of the West were rovers, The voice of his Sire he remember'd not, Nor the greeting by brothers spoken; His home and his kindred were forgot,

But he knew his first love's token--And the sound of his lost Therida's name On his ear like the breath of the south-wind

came.

For we who live in the bright full moont In her rainbow hover'd near him, And we kept in her crystal halls a boon In the lonely hour to cheer him : Then about his pillow of snow we stole, And we gave to the eye of his dreaming soul A mirror that show'd the fair array Of the loveliest hours that had passed away. In the folds of our silver light we keep The joy that is lost too fleetly, And we bring it again to bless the sleep Of him who serves us meetly; We watch his bed, for we send forth all The souls of men from our crystal hall, And the music that dreaming mortals hear Is the distant choir of their native sphere. We watch the maiden's funeral rite, Ere the snowy cheek is shrouded, To take again the spirit of light

That lived in her clay unclouded :

* This adventurer, when found at Spitzbergen by his countrymen, had forgotten his native language, and remembered nothing of his family till his wife's ring was shewn to him.

+The Arctic Moon often remains a fortnight unchanged.

And we waft it away to our realms unseen,
Under icy arches broad and sheen,
Where a thousand gardens of lilies grace
The frozen Pole's eternal base.

Woe to the ear that has heedless heard
Our midnight song of warning!
And to him who wounds the azure bird
We send in the cloud of morning!
He shall see his gallant vessel near
The boat of the ocean-spider,

Its masts shall seem but a May-fly's spear,
And its cable the down of eider;
But when in the slumber of peace he lies,
That boat to a rock of ice shall rise;
When the gale is mute, and the hour is dark,
It shall hold in its chasm his rifted bark,
Till the mighty Serpent* has unfurl'd
The emerald folds that clasp the world.
But he who blesses our holy light

With a pray'r to them that guide it,
Shall steer his bark thro' the mists of night,
Though a whirlpool yawns beside it.
We will build for him our rainbow-bridge,
From the torrent's gulph to the mountain's
ridge;

His bark shall pass where the sea-snake's fin
Is not slender enough its way to win;
And our light of love to the darkest pole
Shall follow and bless our kindred soul.

V.

The Green Serpent of Midgard is supposed to encircle the world.

From the Literary Gazette.

EXTRACT FROM SOUTHWELL'S POEMS.

[Just published.]

The Rev. ROBERT SOUTHWELL lived in the age of Elizabeth. In reviving his poems, Mr. Walter has performed a delightful task; for among the Bards of that brilliant reign he shone with no inferior lustre. With much of the general character of the period, fully participating in its peculiarities, often led away by antithesis, and sometimes conceited in the choice of words, there is an overflowing of mind, a richness of imagination, and a felicity of versifica tion in this author, which eminently entitle his productions to the regard of after times. His melancholy life and dreadful fate, too, would spread a deep interest over his works, even were they in themselves destitute of it, which is very far from being the case. Poor Southwell was cast on a stormy epoch, when neither high birth, nor merit, nor innocence, sufficed to save the victims of political and religious contentions. He was of a good family in Norfolk, educated at Doway, and at sixteen entered into the society of Jesuits at Rome. 1584 he came as a missionary into England, became domestic chaplain to Anne countess of Arundel, in which situation he remained till 1592, when, in consequence of some of the violent re-actions of that time, he was apprehended at Uxenden in Middlesex, and sent prisoner to the Tower Here he was confined three years, during which, says Mr. Walter,

In

"He was cruelly racked ten times, with a view to extort from him a disclosure of cer

tain supposed conspiracies against the government. At the end of this period, he sent an epistle to Cecil, the Lord Treasurer, humbly entreating his Lordship that he might either be brought upon his trial, to answer for himself, or, at least, that his friends might have leave to come and see him. The Treasurer answered, "that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire." Shortly after, he was removed to Newgate, tried at Westminster for remaining in England contrary to the statute, convicted, and condemned to death; which sentence was executed at Tyburn on the 21st of February, 1595; when the unhappy sufferer was only in his 35th year.

His principal poem is St. Peter's Complaint, which is a perfect exemplification of the characteristics we have ascribed to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth. Replete with thought, redundant in images, antithetical,and strained with a few conceits, it is altogether an admirable composition. The entire theme is occupied with the selfaccusations and contrite mourning of Peter for the crime of having denied his Master. Of the minor poems, we are much pleased with the moral and pathetic turn of that

"UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH."

EFORE my face the picture hangs,

Boat daily should put me in mind,

Of these cold names* and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;
But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose had sometimes been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must ; I see the sentence, too, that saith, "Remember man, thou art but dust." But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think indeed that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well;
But yet, alas! for all this, I
Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I am used to wear,
The knife wherewith I cut my meat;
And eke that old and ancient chair,

Which is my only usual seat;
All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.
My ancestors are turned to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away,

And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no; I know that I must die.
And yet my life amend not I.

Not Solomon, for all his wit,

Nor Samson, though he were so strong; No king, nor power ever yet +

Could 'scape, but death laid him along. Wherefore I know that I must die, Aud yet my life amend not I. * Wastell reads better' qualins.' Nor ever person yet,'

[VOL. 4

Though all the East did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name;
And all the West did likewise fear,

To hear of Julius Caesar's fame;
Yet both by death in dust now lie;
Who then can 'scape, but he must die?
If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey;
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,

Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, since I must die.

From the Literary Gazette.

SUNDAY.

BY W. C. HARVEY.

OW six laborious days are gone,

No

The Sabbath-bells are tolling,
With many a spirit-thrilling tone,
To prayers and praises knolling.

With gladden'd eyes the village see
The welcome season dawning,
Put on their Sunday clothes with glee,
And bail the sacred morning.

Each blooming lass is proud to wear
Her newest gown and bonnet,
While dames of three-score whisper near,
And moralize upon it.

Jocund of heart they seem, in sooth,
Stout Will now 'squires his Nannie.
Bald seventy takes the arm of youth,
The prattler leads his grannie.

Ob, 'tis, methinks, a pleasant sight,

When neighbours thus are meeting, When ev'ry countenance is bright,

And smiles with smiles are greeting.

Thrice welcome is the day of rest,
To them a cheerful season;
Devotion fills each glowing breast,
But 'tis the fruit of reason.

And as they leave the house of prayer,
The solemn service ended,
They to their humble homes repair,
With hearts and morals mended.

And when at home, each breast dilates
With joys that have no measure,
And each his evening consecrates
To calm domestic pleasure.

INSCRIPTION FOR A SUN-DIAL.

BY W. C. HARVEY.

M'Tells thee irre how time is gliding

TORTAL, while the sunny beam,

Haste the moments to redeem,
For eternity providing.

Winters pass, and springs renew,
In maturity advancing,
Youth to pleasure sighs" Adieu,"
In the fields of childhood dancing.
Manhood sinks to hoary age,

And a night that has no morning:
Oh, let Wisdom now engage,

Hear her dictates, and take warning! Wisely still the moments use,

Man is every moment dying; While this tablet you peruse, Oh, remember time is flying!

No. XII.

FAIRLY DRIVEN OUT OF TOWN.

Nothing I'll bear from thee,

But nakedness, thou detestable town!

Timon of Athens.

HAVE a half cousin, about fifty years of age, whose name is Bridget Jones. Her fond mother generally called her Biddy, by which name I beg leave to introduce her to my friends. Biddy was very good looking at twenty; at thirty she fell off a little; at for. ty, she grew thin, and began to bear marks of disappointment; at fifty she is a skeleton.

Between the ages of twenty and of forty, she refused a rich country squire, a poor clergyman, and two other professional men in good practice; she having determined to marry either a lord, a baronet, or a colonel in the army. One of the last description paid her marked attentions; but, as cousin Biddy terms it, "he never explained himself."

Since the age of forty no one has ever troubled her, and she now boldly declares her resolution never to marry. She is even grown so squeamish, that she will not take a gentleman's arm, but prefers walking as erect as a serjeant's pike, with her foot-boy behind her, to being linked in the arm even of 3D ATHENEUM, VOL. 4.

myself, whose age and grave habits might satisfy her scrupulosity.

Biddy was educated at Queen-square boarding-school, but had not been in town for five and twenty years, until the other day, when I received a billet from her to inform me that she had taken a lodging in Bury Street St. James's, in order to be near me, and to be at the same time in the court end of the town. She occupied the first floor; and the second was inhabited by Sir Oliver Oxygen, a Scotch baronet, and a very great speculator. His fav ourite study was chemistry, and he had sanguine hopes of making his fortune by it. He lodged in the second floor, in order, as he said, to enjoy more rarified air; but it is rather thought that his main object was to be above the world.

Miss Biddy did not much like hav ing a male lodger in the house; but she could rely on her own discretion and on a drop bolt; and she resolved not to be intimate enough to warrant his visiting her; so that she confined their intercourse to sidelong courtesies as they passed upon the staircase. Poor Biddy! the Baronet would not have given a good dinner for her, nor have parted with an atom of potassium or sodium to purchase a groce of ladies like her. The constant fumes however